My imagination made a swimming pool whose waves have enough kinetic energy to splash onto neighbouring grass and water the lilies.

My monster, who is of the variety gila, is lonely and has no scrilla, so I am going to draw up a tablet for him for chatting with a croc named Mia.

My grandfather let me climb up a tumulus when we visited the country behind his family’s farm, so I iced him a cake with the rainbow we saw that day.

My hopes and dreams are the bastion of my creativity, a means of expressing myself through the tools and mediums that are the presents in my presence, hence why, on this summer day, desiring to stay cool and comfy, I have painted a polar bear eating vanilla ice cream in a pillow fort. ; )

Why is my gaze above the cover rather than on the page? Well, your malapert remark was remarkably inept at not garnering my attention. I will have you know that my presence here is not due to being rigwelted, so opting for the appellative of Lucy The Lame in your greeting may be considered a gross misfire. This a place for comfort and cogitation. Speaking of thoughts, though, my reply to your not-so-welcoming words is a reminder that during amphidromia, children of five to seven days of life were given their names. And, since your maturity level seems to be about the same age, I think, henceforth, I will acknowledge you as Ricky The Prickly. ; )

Where might one find, for lips’ desire, a kiss? Whether with nuance or passion, it must be, most assuredly, with bliss.

Where might one find, for heart’s need, a smooch? Presence perceived as welcoming–not nebby–merits a proximous scooch.

Where might one find, for allure’s want, a snog? Any will suffice: shoreline sandy, balcony vetust, or curtained corner agog.

Where might one find, for love’s longing, an osculation? Hold close those who share lively locks from a most fecund cogitation. ; )